


Do It for the Kids

by firingmaincannon (dasheroyjackson)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Background Grimmons, Canon Divergence, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Parent-Child Relationship, Single Parents, Slow Burn, alcohol use, background kimbalina, the chorus war is over and everyone lived because i said so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-11 14:41:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4439696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dasheroyjackson/pseuds/firingmaincannon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Junior's coming home to visit, and Tucker's pumped. But Junior's bringing some alien friends, too, and he wants to them to meet his parents. Plural. Tucker's less pumped about that. But maybe Wash can help him out by pretending to be his better half. No homo. Probably.</p><p>(Takes place in a universe where the Chorus war is over and everyone lived, because I said so. Additional tags to be added as story progresses.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. My Type

**Author's Note:**

> Giftfic for carol-ing on tumblr, and also for myself, because I am selfish.
> 
> Fic title from ["Do It for the Kids" by Velvet Revolver](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a7WPVSd5Eoo), and also probably an RTAH injoke.

Junior is coming home.

Tucker’s eyes are tearing up a little and he doesn’t even care. It’ll only be a few days and then he’ll see his son. God, they’re gonna have such a great time. Despite being composed mainly of rubble at this point, Chorus isn’t a bad place to be. He thinks he even saw a (mostly) intact basketball net on a house somewhere in the outskirts. Maybe he can shoot a few hoops with the kid, see if his game’s still as good as it was in grade school.

His kid is coming home.

He’s so excited he almost forgets to read the rest of the letter. Maybe he puts it down and does a celebratory dance around his desk. Maybe not. No one will ever tell. (”Palomo, you tell anyone you saw that, I will shit in your helmet.”) But finally he does pick it back up and finish where he’d left off. And that’s when his excitement drops, with an stomach sensation not unlike driving a Warthog off a cliff.

Junior is coming home, and he’s bringing friends. Sangheili friends.

Shit, that means he’s going to have to warn the entire army–both sides, because the Feds may have actually fought aliens before, but the Republic people sure aren’t fans of them either. Kimball and Doyle will have to be notified that, no, they aren’t being attacked, this is just a weird fucking family reunion. (He does smile at the idea of Doyle meeting his kid in person… God, the look on his face will be priceless.) He’ll have to…

Sudden realization drops Tucker back into his chair.

Shit.

He’s going to have to find Carolina and hope she’s feeling merciful.

============

Carolina sure doesn’t look like she’s got any mercy left when he finds her in the training hall. She’s eating a banana with a ferocity that makes Tucker sort of thankful he’s wearing a codpiece. Her eyes have that weird focused glow they get when she’s really happy or really angry. He’d venture a guess that it’s anger right now, because she’s also roundly thrashing one of the Feds with critique that, to be honest, is probably not uncalled for. Those guys have been dicks since the beginning, especially to Kimball. Carolina isn’t the kind of person who takes disrespect of authority lying down, even when the authority isn’t her, so she’d taken action. After she and Doyle had had some kind of talk (from which Doyle emerged quivering so hard he couldn’t stand up), he’d told his men off for it, and they’ve finally started to treat Kimball with a grudging respect. Kimball seems content with it, but Carolina still keeps a sharp eye out for douchebag comments. Tucker can’t really blame her for the protective grouchiness that comes with watching someone be repeatedly and pointlessly disrespected, especially someone who deserves a serious amount of respect. Personally, he thinks they’re probably getting off lucky with laps.

“Look, Francis, I don’t know how I can make it any easier for you,” she’s spitting at the guy when Tucker rolls up next to her. “When I say go faster, I mean–not now, Tucker–I mean I want you to _move your ass._ And don’t try to tell me you can’t go any faster, I’ve seen you sprint the quarter mile to the mess hall in half the time. Get going.” The Fed takes off, and it’s a mark of how much things have changed that Tucker doesn’t hear any grumbling or name-calling under his breath. Carolina sighs, sounding weirdly satisfied, and turns to Tucker.

“Can I help you?”

“Uh.” He smiles awkwardly, because his instinct is to try and charm his way through this, but that’ll just make Carolina irritable. But he has no idea how to start this conversation. “Well, I… say, your armor looks super shiny today.” Sometimes the charm just slips out when he doesn’t want it to, okay? It’s probably genetic, since Junior has it too. Thinking about Junior steels his resolve and he takes a deep breath.

She raises an eyebrow and puts the bananaless hand on her hip. “What do you want.”

“Okay, okay, I have a…. uh, a favor to ask.” He’s already plotting out the way to Grey’s office in his head because there’s a good chance he’s not coming out of this conversation with all his blood inside his body. “So…. well, first of all, Junior’s coming to visit.”

Her eyes widen in surprise. “That’s great! We’ll get to meet him.”

“Yeah, well, that’s… what I need help with.”

“Are you worried about him being attacked? I’ll make sure word gets out that he’s an ally.” Her face sets in a way that makes Tucker weirdly fond of her. Never even met the kid, all she knows about him is he’s an alien and the child of one of her asshole teammates, and she’s still gearing up to defend him. Carolina is good people, when she gets the chance.

“Thanks, I… that means a lot. I’ll talk to Doyle and Kimball about it, too. But… that’s not really what I’m….” He coughs. “See, Junior is bringing some alien friends of his, so they can meet his family.”

She stares at him.

“His family. Like, not just his weird human dad. They’re expecting a full set of parents.”

“Are you saying Junior hasn’t told his friends that his birth was…. nontraditional?”

“No, no…” There’s no way they don’t know it. Junior’s the chosen one, which means every Sangheili knows (at least in general terms) about his odd heritage. “It’s just… you know, their culture is kinda… I think the term is “nuclear family”? Most of their families don’t work how Junior’s did. Usually there’s two parents and they stay together to raise the kid, just like human parents.” Tucker’s always been a little torn about this. He wasn’t exactly itching to buy curtains with Junior’s other parent, but it might’ve helped him learn how to raise the kid to know about his own culture, and it might’ve made Junior feel a little more like he belonged.

And there was the crux of it. “Junior doesn’t talk about it, I think he thinks it’d hurt my feelings, but I’m pretty sure he wishes sometimes he had a proper Sangheili-style family. Two parents, a home to come back to, all of it.”

Carolina’s face shifts, almost imperceptibly, and Tucker suddenly realizes that maybe he’s talking to the wrong person about unorthodox family structures. But then she murmurs, “Poor kid,” and he thinks maybe she’s exactly the right person. His moment of affection for her is quickly eclipsed, though, by the thought that maybe he can use this to his advantage.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low and tragic, “he really feels left out of his culture. And I just want to do something for him to show him he’s not really that different. That his family’s not that different. And I was thinking…” He sounds so sad now that the effort’s almost hurting his throat, but he’s also ready to run if this goes tits-up. “…I was thinking maybe I could, you know, be with someone when he gets here. Just so he can show his friends he’s got two parents, a whole family to come back to.” He locks eyes with her. “Be _with_ someone.”

She gets his meaning immediately, if the way her eyes slit is any indication. “Was this whole thing just an elaborate pick-up?”

“No, no, God no,” he says, jumping back a little and letting his voice go back to normal. “No, believe me, I know better than to try that on you.” He thinks she smiles a little at that, for a second. “No, I just…” His shoulders fall. “I really want my kid to feel proud of where he comes from, that’s all.”

“By lying to him about his father having a girlfriend?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes the best thing you can do is lie. At least about little things.” She probably disagrees, upon retrospection, but she doesn’t say anything to protest, just stares at him for a moment. She opens her mouth once or twice, then seems to decide against whatever she was about to say. Then:

“Why’d you come to me with this?”

“Well, I… uh.” Because Kimball is too stern and too busy, Jensen is too young (and too nerdy), volleyball girl is honestly too hot for it to be believable (and possibly dating Jensen), Grey is too scary, he doesn’t know any of the other rebels well, and he still kind of hates the Feds? “I thought it’d make sense, you know, we have matching-ish armor and everything, we work together, you’re…. not buying this, it’s okay, we can talk about it….” 

She sure isn’t. Not that she’s saying anything, but she is in the middle of a particularly vicious bite of banana, and as he watches her chew it his voice gives out a little bit.

She swallows, finally. “It’s not going to happen, Tucker. Sorry. Kimball’d be upset.”

“Why would Kimball care? She have something against white lies among family?”

“She’s got something against cheating.”

“Chea…” It clicks, and suddenly Carolina’s protectiveness over Kimball makes sense. So does a thousand “late-night debriefs” and “one-on-one strategy meetings in Kimball’s locked office” and “Tucker, oh my God, go away, I’m doing something." “Congratulations, I guess?” It’s not so much that he knows better than to say Bow-Chicka-Bow-Wow. It’s more that he is afraid even to think it. Carolina smiles crookedly. It is both terrifying and kind of a turn-on, and he can absolutely see why she and Kimball are together. 

“I am sorry I can’t help you, though, Tucker. It might’ve been… a good story, at least, if exhausting and shameful, to fake-date you.” 

“I can’t even take offense to that. At this point I’m comfortable knowing half the dates I get are from people who are into being super embarrassed of themselves and me.”

“Hm. Always good to accept yourself as you are, I hear.” She pauses a moment. “Do the aliens care about gender?”

“Wait, huh? Like… are they sexist? Uh….” Come to think of it, he’s not even sure there’s a Sangheili word for gender, or for male or female. There just doesn’t seem to be any difference, from what he’s seen or heard. He pretty much only calls Junior his son out of convenience, and Junior’s never corrected him. ….He makes a mental note to ask the kid about that when he gets to Chorus. “I don’t think so.”

“Then go bother Wash with this.”

Tucker literally takes a step back out of shock. “Excuse me?”

“If it doesn’t matter what gender the other person is, then you should probably try someone who’s both close to you and actually single.” Carolina snorts. “Not to mention Wash seems to be a big proponent of ‘cultural acceptance’ and all that, based on the things he said to Kimball when the Feds were being particularly hard to handle. I bet he’d be perfect.”

Tucker puts his hands up, like he can fight off what she’s saying. “Hey now, I’m not going to ask Wash to… Look, I can’t even say that to him, okay? What if he gets the wrong impression?”

She shrugs. “I got the wrong impression, and I still didn’t put you in the ground like I first considered. And he’s less scary than me.” Which is true, and she’s making good points, and… at least he gets along with Wash?

He groans, long and throaty and dramatic. Several of the soldiers training across the room turn to look at him. One trips over a barrier. Carolina chuckles and they all rush to go back to what they were doing.

“Face it, Tucker, Wash will be a great match for you.” Finishing off the banana, she goes to drop it in the waste bin across the room. “And by the way,” she calls back over her shoulder, “since I’m the reason you’re getting together, I expect to be the one who gives the speech at your wedding.”

He doesn’t even bother to yell back, just half-heartedly flips her off. The sad thing is, he won’t even have to go looking for Wash, because he already knows where he is this time of day, because he’s memorized Wash’s schedule just by being around the guy a lot. So (a) he has no excuse to keep him from going to ask, and (b) he’s never going to hear the end of this from anyone.

He thinks of Junior’s face, thinks of Junior being happy to see his dad with a partner, and straightens his shoulders. If he’s gonna do this, he’s gonna do it right.

He’s gotta find some flowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (can you tell i love carolina)
> 
> Chapter title from ["My Type" by Saint Motel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IyVPyKrx0Xo)


	2. I Need a Hero

“Ooh, flowers! Who’d you get those from?”

Donut’s basically the last person Tucker wanted to see right now, so of course he’s here, hanging out in front of the military offices. And of course Tucker couldn’t sneak by him, because aqua-turquoise-whatever-the-fuck isn’t exactly a subtle color, and of course Donut had immediately beelined over to him. Donut is scary for a lot of reasons, including his throwing arm, but his friendliness is by far the scariest thing about him.

“I didn’t get them from anyone. They’re...” He swallows the protest back, keenly aware of how this’ll go if Donut knows what he’s doing here. “I just gotta get into the offices, okay? I don’t have time to talk right now.”

“Oooooooooh.” Donut sounds very, very interested, and it sends a chill down Tucker’s spine. God, he so doesn’t need this. “Which lucky person is getting flowers in the offices? Are they for Kimball? I hope not. Rolf Fiedlers are more her color, that cornflower blue is too dark. Plus Carolina will probably kill you.”

“I don’t know what the fuck a Rolf Fiedler is, and--wait, how did you know about Carolina and Kimball?”

Donut cocks his head. “Be...cause... they’re super obvious?”

Tucker grunts. “Just let me get in there and stop talking to me.”

“Okey-dokey! Good luck, hot stuff!” And Donut waves cheekily at him as he slips through the doors. 

Once he’s out of danger, Tucker shakes himself a little, trying not to feel like the exchange was a bad omen. God knows, though, that there’ll be some gossip going around about him at dinner tonight. Well, fuck it. If they want to say he’s a romantic after all, then let them.

The offices are located in one of the more intact buildings in a former Republic base. Kimball and the lieutenants seem to feel safer here. Doyle has an office here too, but he’s never in it. He also seems to prefer staying somewhere familiar, back in Armonia. He and Kimball have most of their meetings over conference call now. This seems to be the best course of action, since it means Kimball can mute her end and make gagging noises whenever Doyle gets too over the top, which is definitely a more productive way of venting her frustration than just screaming at the guy outright. Whatever keeps the alliance a-rollin’, Tucker thinks. Doyle’s probably doing the same thing on his end.

It’s not Kimball’s office Tucker’s looking for, though. Wash has a tiny closet at the end of the hallway, easy to miss. The door’s usually open, not because Wash is being welcoming, but just because so many people are in and out of the little room on a daily basis. Today, though, the door is closed. Tucker listens outside for a moment, but can’t hear any talking or noise on the other side. He raps on the door.

“Wash? You there?”

Silly question. Tucker really does know Wash’s schedule as well as he knows his own (better, actually; now that he thinks of it, Tucker is supposed to be meeting with Grif at the armory right now, isn’t he? woops), and Wash never takes time off office work. Wash doesn’t reply, though, so Tucker eases the door open.

Wash is there, just as Tucker had figured, but he’s not working. Nope, he’s slumped over his desk, pens scattered across the surface and onto the floor, dead asleep with his face on his vidcom. Tucker stares for a minute, because seeing Wash this relaxed and vulnerable is kind of a once in a lifetime thing. There’s some pretty massive bags under his eyes, and Tucker wonders how long it’s been since the guy slept in an actual bed. He’s also drooling a little, mouth slack, sighing gently in his sleep. 

Tucker kind of doesn’t want to wake him up, but he knows Wash will only get busier for the rest of the day--so will he, once he stops slacking off--so this is really the only time he can do this. He pulls the door shut behind him and sits down across the desk. Then, reluctantly, he touches Wash’s arm.

He expects Wash to jolt awake, on red alert, and that’s exactly what he does. What Tucker doesn’t expect is for Wash to realize who was sitting across from him and then _relax,_ slouching and rubbing his eyes. Apparently Tucker isn’t worth the effort of faking professionalism. 

“You okay, dude?” he asks, because honestly this is freaking him out a little bit. Wash doesn’t even seem embarrassed to have been caught sleeping on the job. In fact, he doesn’t even seem fully awake yet. Tucker’s seen the guy jump to his feet and start giving orders straight out of sleeping like a log, so this is... really weird.

“Tucker. Yeah, I’m fine.” Wash yawns in that really big, gross jaw-cracking way. “Were we supposed to be meeting right now? I’m sorry, I thought I had some downtime, I was trying to catch up on some of my paperwork--”

“Which clearly was a success,” Tucker says, grinning. “Nah, I’m not on the calendar or anything. I just needed to talk to you.” And just like that, whatever weirdness he was feeling about Wash before is magnified, because he remembers that he’s not just here to shoot the breeze. He lifts up the flowers, arm feeling strangely heavy, and places them unceremoniously onto the desk where Wash’s head had been.

Wash looks down at the flowers, then back at Tucker, then down again. He stares at the blooms like he’s never seen anything like them before, and when he meets Tucker’s eyes again, he looks baffled. “Did... somebody die, or...?”

“What? No. No. God. These aren’t condolence flowers, they’re... uh, cornflowers?” 

Wash just keeps staring. Tucker isn’t sure he’s seen him blink yet. “Why are they on my desk?”

“Well. Because.” Swallow. Deep breath. “I need you to date me for family reasons.” And hey, that almost sounds like a reasonable thing a human being might say to another human being, right?

Now Wash blinks. He blinks a lot. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, and then forgets to close it. He has a little bit of smeared drool on his cheek. Tucker focuses on that grossness because it’s easier than meeting Wash’s gaze. 

“Run that by me again?” 

Tucker still can’t look up to Wash’s eyes, so he just kind of stares at the guy’s mouth while he answers. “Junior is coming to visit, and he’s bringing other Sangheilis, and I want him to feel like he has a normal family, and that means I need to be dating someone, and you seemed like...”

Suddenly Wash is much more awake, and even if Tucker isn’t meeting his eyes, he can feel their stare sharpen on his face. “I seemed like _what,_ Lavernius?”

“N-nothing? I mean, Carolina was the one who...” Tucker trails off as he realizes exactly what a terrible idea it is to throw Carolina under the bus. “Someone--not naming names--said they thought it was a good idea to ask you. Not to actually date me! Just to... you know...” He sinks down in his chair, gesturing aimlessly.

Wash puts his elbows on the desk and leans forward. “No, Tucker, I really don’t know. Why don’t you tell me.”

Tucker sighs, not even trying to sound dramatic this time. “I need somebody to pretend to be in a serious relationship with me so my son can feel like he fits into his culture. To pretend, okay? That’s all.”

Wash’s face crinkles. “Is this just a really long set-up for a pickup line, or...”

“Oh my God. You and Carolina can both fuck off.”

“What does Carolina--”

“Never mind her. No, it’s not a pickup. I honestly just need to look like a put-together adult who is seeing another put-together adult, just while Junior and his buddies are here.” He covers his face with both hands. “I’m begging you, man, don’t make it weird.”

“I hate to break it to you, but you sort of already made it weird.” Tucker peers out from between his fingers to see Wash staring at the flowers again, and smiling. “If it’s fake, why’d you bring flowers?”

“I heard it was the thing you do when you’re trying to woo someone properly. I dunno. Never really done it before.”

“Me neither.” Wash stops smiling. “Seriously, Tucker, I’ve never done this before. Wouldn’t you want someone more... experienced at partnerships like this?” On one level, Tucker kind of agrees. Wash is talking like he’s not even sure what dating _is,_ much less how to do it. But there really isn’t anyone else he can go to with this, not who would take it seriously. And whatever else might be going through Wash’s head, the look on his face tells Tucker that he is, in fact, taking him seriously.

“I mean, if you’ve never done it, and I’ve never done it, maybe it’ll seem more real?” He’s grasping at straws, but he keeps going, not willing to give up yet.

“Why does this matter so much?” Wash asks. He’s got one hand on the stems of the flowers, and Tucker notices him start to stroke one of the blooms, seemingly unconsciously. “Surely Junior will understand that you’re single? It’s not like he’s had a very normal family life up until now anyway.”

“See, that’s exactly why it matters! He couldn’t get a normal life, or normal parents, instead he got me. No one in the universe would pick me to be a parent, including me, but here I am. Daddy to the Sangheili chosen one. And I love him, he’s my kid, I wouldn’t give him up for anything, but...” Tucker rubs a hand over his face. Suddenly he feels tired and old. “He’s had to give up a lot. Grew up fast, without much family, because I could only be with him some of the time. And he was raised outside his culture, so now he’s stuck outside it. I don’t want him to have to give up feeling like he has a real family, too, just because I’m too much of an asshole to get a real girlfriend.” His hand drops to the table, fiddling with one of the pens sitting there. 

“This is really important to you.” The surprise in Wash’s voice hurts Tucker’s feelings a little, though he wishes it didn’t. It’s no shock to know his teammates think he’s shallow and selfish, because he usually is, just... not about this. Not about Junior. His kid deserves better. 

He closes his eyes. “Yeah. It is.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes. Then something brushes his fingers. He opens his eyes to see Wash’s hand resting gingerly on his own. When he notices Tucker looking, Wash squeezes a little and lets go.

“If you think it’ll help, I’ll do it,” Wash says, expression solemn. Tucker wants to laugh, because only Wash could treat fake-dating like a proper military assignment. It’ll never hold up. If there’s one thing Junior knows about his dad, it’s that he hates a boring date. They’ll have to do something about that if they want to pull it off. But for now, he’s just overwhelmingly grateful.

“Awesome.” Tucker stands up, stretching. Wash stands too, probably out of habit. “So does that mean I can like, smack your ass to declare the contract sealed, or what?”

“Is that how you treat your dates? No wonder they don’t stick around.” Wash rolls his eyes heavenward, but Tucker sees the edge of a smile before he can tug it into submission.

“Oh, no, usually I just show them one hell of a good time. Sometimes it does involve ass-smacking, but only if they’re _bad._ ” He’s pretty sure Wash actually shivers at the way he says the word, which is both adorable and kind of alarming. He files that somewhat TMI tidbit away for the future, trying not to think about why is face is suddenly warmer. “I assume they realize the next day that nothing will ever be as good, so they book it before life loses all sense of purpose and meaning.”

“All this and more I have to look forward to.”

“Oh, no, honeybun.” Tucker crosses around the desk to put his arm cross Wash’s shoulders. “If we’re going to be dating seriously, you’ll get the special treatment.” He pauses. “As soon as I figure out what that is. Like I said, this is new territory.”

“Hm. Well, think about it elsewhere. I do actually have things to do in here. We can talk about this more tonight.” Wash shoos him toward the door.

Tucker blows a kiss over his shoulder. “I’ll see you tonight, you hunk of burning Freelancer.” He’s out the door when--

_Whack._

He looks back over his shoulder, incredulous, at a grinning but somewhat blushy Wash, who shuts the door in his face.

He’d smacked Tucker’s ass.

Tucker stares at the cheaply painted wood for a few seconds in shock. Then, against his better judgment, a smile spreads crookedly over his face.

This is going to end terribly, he knows this, but at least it’ll probably be fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from ["I Need a Hero" by Bonnie Tyler](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vA48rDXh1_4)


	3. Allow Me to Introduce Myself... Mr. Right

Wash brings the flowers to dinner.

Wash brings  
the flowers  
to _dinner._

Tucker stares at him in horror from across the mess hall. He’s talking to Matthews, who’s wearing a purple apron that clashes wildly with his yellow armor accents. Tucker can’t tell what they’re saying, but he does see Matthews point back toward the kitchen. Wash nods and makes his way in that direction.

Slouching down as far as he can, Tucker still can’t avoid noticing that Donut, two tables away with some of his Fed friends, has been watching Wash too. And then, like a scene from a horror movie, Donut’s head swivels slowly from Wash to Tucker. He’s got the most ecstatic look on his face. Tucker sinks down lower.

“Don’t say anything,” he mutters under his breath, almost a prayer, but too late: Donut leans forward to whisper conspiratorially to his table, and as he speaks several Fed helmets turn to face Tucker as well.

Welp, he thinks, it’s over. Time to go back to Blood Gulch and die.

Tucker’s impending panic is interrupted when Grif slams his tray down next to him. “If I never have to wash any more goddamn dishes,” he grunts, “it’ll be too fucking soon.” He glances at Tucker’s untouched plate. “You gonna finish that cookie?”

Tucker shakes his head, not sure he’s capable of human speech at the moment. Thankfully, Grif doesn’t press him, more interested in his food and in Simmons sitting down across from them.

“Weren’t you supposed to be briefing your squad?” Grif asks irritably. “What are you _fraternizing_ with us for?” Sounds like they’re mid-argument, and Tucker has no idea what it’s about this time, but he’s been around them long enough to know better than to ask. Not that he’d bother now anyway, since he’s still pretty occupied with freaking the fuck out.

Simmons reddens a little, but he holds his ground, apparently just as annoyed as Grif. “Yeah, well, I figured we could talk at dinner. Together. _Both_ our teams.” And as if he’d summoned them, Jensen and Bitters step up to the table and sit beside their respective captains. Judging from the looks they’re throwing each other, neither is very excited to be in the crossfire of a legendary Red Team fight, but there’s not shit they can do about it. Tucker’s been there.

“Hi, Tucker!” The chipper voice fills him with potent dislike before he can even identify it, but sure enough, Palomo sits down on Tucker’s other side. Tucker slings some intense side-eye at him, and his face falls. “Captain, sorry. I saw the other lieutenants sit down and I didn’t want to miss any important meetings!”

“Yeah,” Grif says through a mouthful of potatoes, “you might have missed Simmons being a little bitch. Definitely a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”

“Listen here, you--”

“Stop dragging the lieutenants into your fights, you two.” It’s a good thing Tucker has forgotten to eat, because Wash sneaking up behind him would’ve made him choke. As it is he still seizes up a little bit. 

“Yeah, okay, Dad,” Grif mutters, but he simmers down. Wash doesn’t reply, probably wisely. Tucker watches out of the corner of his eye as Wash sets his tray down next to Jensen, along with--

“What’s with the flowers?” Simmons asks, peering down the table. Rather than leaving them as a loose pile, Wash has made the situation indescribably worse by putting them in a makeshift vase. It looks like it might’ve once held olive oil or something. It solves the mystery of what Wash was up to in the kitchen, and Tucker wishes it hadn’t.

“Well,” Wash begins, and Tucker automatically flinches, “they were a... a nice gift.” And--God damn it, God _damn it_ \--he smiles at Tucker. This fond, sweet, shy smile that makes Tucker want to barf up the dinner he barely ate.

The Blood Gulch crew and their hapless lieutenants may not be known for their reasoning skills, but they can connect the dots, and Tucker witnesses a truly astounding variety of facial expressions as they process this new information. Grif puts forward the effort of actually raising an eyebrow, Simmons’ eyes are the biggest he’s ever seen them, Jensen is smiling like it’s the cutest thing she’s ever heard, Bitters apparently couldn’t care less, and fucking Palomo actually claps Tucker on the arm and yells, “This is _awesome!_ ” Several heads at other tables turn to look at him. Tucker decides that each head-turn means another hundred squat reps at Green Team training tomorrow.

“Can I. Talk to you. In private,” he squeezes out at Wash. Wash nods and rises gracefully from the table. For his part, Tucker almost falls over and may or may not “accidentally” step on Palomo’s foot (it kind of actually was an accident, but he’ll take credit for it anyway) as he races to catch up with Wash outside. 

“What,” he pauses as a group of Republic kids goes by, “was that about? Why did you bring those here?”

Wash is watching him with the same face he always makes when he thinks Tucker is being amusingly dumb, and it annoys Tucker every time, but never more than it does right now. “Believe it or not,” he says in this disgustingly patient voice, “I did have a plan in mind.”

“Which was fucking what, exactly? Announce that we’re fake dating to everyone on Chorus? Because if that’s your plan, I’m pretty sure all you needed was Doyle’s P.A.”

“Think, Tucker.” Wash gestures back toward the mess hall. “If everyone saw us together for the first time the day Junior shows up, they’d all be surprised, and Junior would never buy it.”

“Okay, but is there a reason why we couldn’t just tell them all we’re faking it?” Tucker stares through the doors. He can still see Donut from out here, and he’s pretty alarmed to find the guy’s got a bit of a crowd around him. “Why’d you have to act all....” Failing to find words, he just jazz-hands and hopes Wash gets his meaning.

He does, and it doesn’t seem to impress him. “Apart from the fact that 'Tucker and I are faking a relationship’ sounds unbelievably stupid? I want you to imagine those people all knowing a secret, a secret about you, and trying to keep it.”

“I have some experience with that,” Tucker grumbles. The group around Donut has gotten bigger. “It’s not their strong point.”

“Then you see what I mean. Especially since they’d also be trying to act convincingly enough to fool Junior into thinking we’re really seeing each other. You saw the lieutenants’ Easter play. They’d give the game away immediately.” He shrugs. “I think they have to believe it, too, for this to work.”

Tucker’s starting to regret ever deciding to do this, every single part of it, Junior’s feelings be damned. It must show in his face, because Wash’s eyes gentle, and he pats Tucker’s shoulder.

“It’ll be okay. Probably a little embarrassing for a while, but I don’t think anyone’s going to give you a hard time. And if they do, they’ll be hearing from me about it.” The tense set of his jaw suggests a million laps in the future of anyone who tests him, and a tiny part of Tucker is grudgingly reassured.

“ _I’m_ gonna give _you_ a hard time. Bow-chicka--God, you know what, never mind.” Tucker sighs. “I’m gonna get so much shit from Church. Not to mention Grif and Simmons.” Then he remembers an incident a few months ago, when two of the cadets started dating, and his blood runs cold. “And Doc and Donut are gonna start gift-baking again.”

Wash winces. “Oh dear God. I don’t know if I can handle that again.”

“Well, it’s your fault, so you’re the one who has to eat all the vegan cakes when they start pouring in like mortar shells.” Tucker nods toward the mess hall. “Wanna go finish dinner?”

“Sure.” Wash pauses a second, then comes at Tucker with a predatory look in his eyes. “One thing first.”

“Oh God. Please, no.”

“We have to do it, Tucker. For the honor of your son. For your family.”

“Don’t you fucking do it.”

“It’s happening sooner or later, Lavernius. Just deal with it.” And Wash gives him a spine-cracking hug in full view of the everyone at dinner. 

“I fucking hate you,” Tucker says, voice muffled against Wash’s neck. But he hugs him back. For posterity, or whatever.

The trip back to their table lasts forever. He’s never seen anyone look at smug as Donut does, now that his gossip has been proven right. People are definitely staring. Wash was right about one thing, though: no one looks combative about it, just a mixed bag of shocked and what Tucker hopes he’s misreading as eager. He collapses back into his seat between Grif and Palomo with some relief. He can handle any ribbing the Red Team and the lieutenants can throw at him, he figures. It’s familiar, and in a way almost comforting.

Grif looks from his face to Wash’s as Wash sits back down next to Jensen. “So... this is a thing that’s happening,” he says flatly. Wash looks to Tucker, and when Tucker makes a face, Wash nods.

Grif sits silently for a second, then scoffs. “’Bout fucking time,” he says, and gets up to dump his dishes in the washroom.

Across the table, Simmons shrugs at them. “He’s kind of right,” he says apologetically, and gets up to follow him. Their lieutenants scurry after them, though Palomo stays put next to Tucker, looking back and forth between him and Wash with wide eyes while shoving potatoes into his mouth.

Okay, scratch everything Tucker said about Red Team being comforting. Fuck the Red Team. And fuck Wash too, Tucker decides, because he looks way too calm about this. In fact, he’s eating his green beans with such dedicated serenity that Tucker wants to slap the fork out of his hands. When Wash locks eyes with him, he responds to Tucker’s deep frown with a sunny smile. Asshole.

A flash of aqua across the room grabs Tucker’s attention, and he leaves Wash alone long enough to see Carolina making a beeline for their table. She’s not holding a tray, and doesn’t even bother to sit down, instead just leaning on the table next to Wash.

“Pretty flowers,” she says innocently, and Tucker knows instantly that someone must have told her what’s going on. His suspicions are confirmed when she winks at him. “Donut commed me about the great news.”

Tucker groans. “Of course he did.”

Her eyes crinkle as she struggles to keep a straight face. “Hey, Tucker, why did Wash get flowers when I didn’t?”

If Tucker sobs a little under his breath, no one notices. (”You want me to pretend I didn’t hear that, Captain?” “You’re goddamn right, Palomo.”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from ["Allow Me to Introduce Myself... Mr. Right" by the White Tie Affair](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kvzy_f45xFQ)


	4. With a Little Help from My Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where we start to see some serious canon divergence from (what I assume will happen in) s13... namely, Church survives the Chorus war. wooooo ~handwaves~

The stares Kimball and Doyle are giving him are less than reassuring, but Tucker keeps talking. Maybe if he rambles for long enough he’ll stumble onto the right words to make them stop looking so dubious.

“And they’ll be staying in their own ship so we won’t have to worry about bunks or anything, plus they’re pretty self-sufficient as far as food goes so they won’t cost us anything, and--”

“Tucker. Slow down.” Kimball may look doubtful, but her voice is pretty calm. “I understand where you’re coming from, but I can’t guarantee any of our soldiers will feel the same way. Aliens showing up on the tail end of a war involving alien weapons? It seems pretty suspicious.”

“Precisely,” Doyle adds, glancing at Kimball like he’s confused about agreeing with her for once. “How can we be sure they aren’t coming simply to capture the weapons and resources that did, after all, belong to them in the first place?”

Tucker frowns at him. “Uh, because Junior is part of a peace coalition? Yeah, they’ll probably want to study this stuff, but they’re not  _invading_  or anything. They’ll probably even bring supplies to trade.”

“But how can you be  _sure_?” Doyle repeats.

“Because he’s my son!”

“Take a breath, both of you.” Kimball puts a hand on Tucker’s shoulder and throws a glare at Doyle for good measure. He scowls, but backs off. “Tucker. If you say that... Junior... and his group are harmless, that helps. But it would help more if we had more than just your word.” She puts up a hand to keep him from interrupting. “Have any of your friends had any experience with him? If they’re willing to speak for him, that would go a long way toward convincing people this visit will be safe.”

Tucker considers. A bunch of the Blood Gulch guys have known Junior since his birth, but most of them wouldn’t exactly be helpful. “Well, Doc delivered him and took care of him for a while. But you don’t really know Doc too well yet, I guess, since he just showed back up.” He almost suggests asking Church, before remembering that  _that_  Church isn’t  _now_ Church. Anything this Church knows came directly from... oh, shit.

He tries not to groan out loud, but it’s a difficult thing. “Well, there’s... Caboose.”

To her credit, Kimball only rolls her eyes a little. “Then let’s go find him.”

 

* * *

 

Caboose is glued to Church’s side when they track him down, which is pretty common nowadays. Church seems oddly okay with it. Tucker thinks it’s because he’s feeling better than he has for a long time. When Church was forced to admit mid-war that he’d been degrading slowly inside Carolina’s head, he’d suggested they pull and destroy him for her sake. It seemed like it’d be the end of Church for good (yeah, like they’d never heard that before) until Sarge stepped up and grudgingly offered to try to build him another robot body. Between his insane, slapdash skills and Dr. Grey’s input on repairing the damage to Church’s actual data--something about “psychomechanics” and “neural dataframing,” Tucker still doesn’t get it, whatever, but it was probably a fucking medical miracle--AI Program Designate Epsilon could now walk around with his own functional legs and arms and everything. At first he stuck by Carolina constantly, probably out of habit, but then he started to wander off by himself more and more. Now that he’s not constantly having a mental conversation with her, he seems to have actually gotten quieter. On second thought, maybe he lets Caboose follow him around because he’s gotten lonely.

Well, that’s a sad thought. Tucker pushes it out of his head as he approaches the pair. 

“Hey, Tucker, Kimball, what’s up?” Church says, nodding at them. He and Caboose are sitting on the ground playing a card game. From the grumpy tone of his voice, Church is losing somehow. Well, Caboose does have a strange selection of random talents.

“We’re actually here to speak with Caboose,” Kimball says. She glances at Tucker expectantly, and his heart sinks as he realizes she’s not going to act as diplomat for him. Caboose doesn’t really like him on the best of days, so he’d hoped Kimball would do the explaining, but so it goes.

“Junior is coming to visit,” he says carefully. “Kimball and Doyle are worried that everyone’s going to panic if a bunch of aliens show up right now, so they figured it might help to have someone who’s met him speak up for him. Tell the soldiers he’s not here to kill everybody, you know?”

Caboose stares at him.

“And you and Doc are the only ones who know him,” Tucker continues after a minute of awkward silence, “and people don’t really know Doc yet, so I was hoping you could....”

He trails off. Caboose is still staring blankly. 

“Caboose?”

“Junior,” Caboose says slowly. “I think it would be fine if I said nice things about Junior, except that, um, who is Junior.”

Church and Tucker groan in unison, and for a second Tucker feels like he has  _his_  Church back again. “Junior is his freaky alien kid,” Church says, “remember, you told me about him, and how Doc let him feed off of you?”

Caboose brightens. “Oh. Yes. Junior. Yes, I like Junior. I will say good things about him. As long as I do not have to give him my blood again.”

Kimball nods approvingly, but Tucker isn’t so confident. “Maybe... don’t... talk about the blood thing. I promise he won’t do that again.”

“That’s good. I need mostly all of it.”

Church drops his cards onto the grass. “So, even if you and Caboose tell everyone Junior’s not here to blow us all the fuck up, how are you planning to handle this once they get here? Even if people don’t shoot down their ship on sight--” Tucker’s fists clench--”it’s not like anyone can really communicate with them. No one here speaks their language.  _You_  don’t speak their language.”

“Junior and I make do,” Tucker says defensively. They’ve sort of mastered a terrible mix of honking and English that means they can understand each other fine... though no one else understands it, including the other aliens he’s traveled with, and he’s starting to see Church’s point. “I guess we’ll just have to... go without? Learn to mime at each other or whatever.”

Kimball puts her hands on her hips, visibly losing patience with the whole plan. “Are you telling me you’ve got a party of historically hostile aliens arriving on my planet in a few days, and you don’t even have an interpreter?”

“Look, we’ll figure it out somehow, okay? I’m sure there’s someone in their group that understands English.” Which would be more comforting if he wasn’t pretty sure most Sangheili voiceboxes were physically incapable of making English word-sounds. So... maybe there's someone on Chorus who can miraculously translate the honk-blarghs, and they'll be all set. Like Dr. Grey! ...Except even Grey, who has studied the aliens for a while, can only understand written Sangheili, and not the verbal language. Fuck.

“What aboutttttt.... Santa?” Caboose drops his cards too and stands excitedly.

“What the fuck about Santa, Caboose?” Tucker sighs. But Church is staring at Caboose like he’s never seen him before. 

“He’s right,” Church says. “What if we used the alien AI as a translator?”

Caboose grins. “Santa, could you come out, please?” 

The AI flickers into existence over his shoulder. “How can I assist you?”

“Uh, Santa,” Tucker begins, and Santa’s whole hologram swivels to face him. It’s kind of unnerving. “Could you be a translator for some Sangheilis that are going to be coming to Chorus?”

“Yes, that would be possible. If Caboose wishes it.” 

Caboose nods solemnly. 

“All right, then,” Kimball says. “Caboose, I’d like to borrow you and Santa for a bit to figure out some logistics, if that’s okay.”

“Yes, it’s okay. I had just beaten Church at this game anyway. He will need time to recover.” Ignoring Church's indignant squawk, he moves to follow Kimball back to her office, but Tucker catches his arm first.

“Hey, Caboose...” Okay, Caboose really needs to stop staring blankly at him, because it’s freaky. It almost makes Tucker miss the days when Caboose insisted on wearing his helmet at all times. “Thanks. This is a huge help.”

Caboose’s eyes narrow, like he’s trying to figure out when Tucker will start being an asshole again. Smiling at him feels wrong on principle, so Tucker tries to make a face that looks genuine. He’s pretty rusty at it. It seems to work, though, because Caboose just says, “You’re welcome, Tucker,” and turns away.

As Tucker watches him catch up to Kimball, Church gets up and stands beside him. “Sounds like you’ve got a lot going on right now, buddy.”

“Yeah, planning this visit has been a fucking nightmare,” he admits, rubbing his face. “Having a translator should help, but I still gotta tell everyone not to freak out.”

“Yeah,” Church says in an exaggerated tone of concern. “Between that and your newly blossoming romance, your life has just been  _so_  hard lately.” 

“My wha--oh, you fucking asshole.” He’d almost forgotten. Church’s new body doesn’t have an emotive face, but if he did, he’d absolutely be smirking. “How did you find out about that?”

“Oh, you mean besides Donut’s memo that’s been reposted like two hundred times on Basebook? Carolina told me.” 

His stomach unclenches a little. “Wait, so then you know about--”

“The whole thing being fake. Yeah. You know you’re a dumbass, right?” Church flicks him obnoxiously on the shoulder. “Faking a relationship to impress somebody is an epic new level of low for you. Not to mention pointless. Junior’s not gonna care.” He tilts his head thoughtfully. “Unless it’s really about showing him you’re actually a grownup who is capable of human relationships, and if so, I think that ship has sailed.”

“Fuck off, like you know anything about relationships, Mr. Memory Unit Stalker.”

“Hey, you know what, Tucker?” Church asks, voice suddenly scathing. “I was wondering, why did you give Wash flowers? Huh? When Carolina didn’t get any? Why did your stupid fake bullshit merit a  _grand romantic gesture_? Maybe you’re just so desperate to not be a lonely-ass sadsack that you actually attached some real emotion to Wash. Which  _I_  think is convenient, because he’s even more messed up in the head than you are.”

Tucker has to just sit and absorb all that for a minute, because wow. “Wow. Uncalled for.”

“Is it?” Church says, bending to sweep the playing cads into a pile. “Is it really?”

“Dude, I’m sorry I brought up Tex, but you didn’t have to go that far.” He probably deserves the insults, but Wash doesn’t.

“Fuck off.” Cards all in hand, Church stands back up and takes a few steps away before pausing and turn back toward Tucker. “Honestly. Why the flowers.”

“I...” It’s a question Tucker has carefully failed to ask himself. He’d like to say it was because he knew Carolina would never go for it, but he’d kind of known she’d tell him no anyway, flowers or not. Or because he’d thought it was funny, but the way he’d freaked out about it in the caf made it hard to pretend he could laugh it off.

“Because,” he says a little desperately, “I didn’t think he’d take me seriously if I just came in and asked.” Because Wash might have thought Tucker was teasing him. Which Tucker does, often, about things other than romance, but this would be different. It would make things weird. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He just knows he needed Wash to know... something. God dammit, this is why he doesn’t do the self-reflection thing. 

“You needed flowers,” Church separates the cards, “so he’d take you seriously,” he slams the two piles back together, “when you asked him to pretend to date you.” He shakes his head and pockets the cards. “You’re an idiot, Tucker.”

Yeah, he’s willing to admit to himself, he probably is.

“But...” Church adds, calling it back over his shoulder as he bails, “Carolina also told me Wash blushed when he looked at them for too long. So nice job with that, champ, you’re a regular heartbreaker.”

There are a million comebacks rushing through his mind, but all he can manage is a half-assed “fuck off” as Church saunters away like the smug bitch he is. The most frustrating part of it is, even if he did have a good reply, Church would still have won, because Tucker can’t stop thinking about Wash looking at those goddamn flowers and turning red.

Well, whatever. Wash blushes at everything. Tucker once saw him blush when Carolina threatened to give him a noogie. Besides which, Wash knows exactly what’s up. They’re both faking it. If that means Tucker gets to make Wash shy and flustered in the process, then it’s only fair after what Wash pulled in the mess hall. It’ll be funny to see him stutter and flush.

He keeps repeating it to himself _,_   _it’ll be funny_ , to silence the other word that keeps threatening to rise up into his consciousness.

 _Cute_. 

_It’ll be cute._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from ["With a Little Help from My Friends" by the Beatles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jBDF04fQKtQ)


	5. Papa's Got a Brand New Bag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder: I started writing this without seeing a lot of season 13, so it's turning into quite a canon-divergent AU. If there's anything that's unclear about what's changed or what's going on, give me a shout in the comments and I'll see if I can clarify.
> 
> (w for alcohol use in this chapter, if that bothers anyone)

“So remember, everybody stay nice and calm. They may sound pretty angry, but that’s just what how their language is.” Tucker looks down the welcoming line for about the twentieth time, his fingers fidgeting where they’re entwined with Wash’s.

Wash squeezes his hand and Tucker stops twitching. “It’ll be fine,” he says softly. “Nothing will go wrong, just calm down.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Tucker mutters, but he settles a little. It helps to know that the actual group of people waiting to meet the ship is fairly small. Kimball and Doyle are both there, of course, and so is Caboose with Santa waiting dutifully at his side. Even if Tucker hadn’t dragged him there, Wash still would’ve been chosen for the welcome wagon, since he’s pretty high up in rank. Between Wash and Kimball stands Carolina, her guns noticeably absent from their holsters. It seems like she gently curled her hair for the occasion, and she looks regal and dignified. Kimball’s not looking too shabby herself, with her dark skin offset by darker lipstick and eyeliner, and her hair trapped back in elaborate braids. Doyle, conversely, looks he just shit himself, eyes wide from nerves and sweat gluing his stringy hair to his forehead. Tucker’s not impressed. He’s got no right to talk, though, since he didn’t even take a shower this morning, too wired to stand still for the whole three minutes it would take.

Wash looks just like he always does. Or so Tucker assumes. It’s not like he’s looking.

(Caboose probably looks just like he always does, too, but Tucker  _really_  isn’t looking at him.)

A little ways behind their group, between them and a crowd of people from Chorus, stand the rest of the Blood Gulch crew and the lieutenants, plus a few of Doyle’s higher-ups. Red Team doesn’t look as bored as he’d expected, but then again the look in Sarge’s eyes isn’t one that he’s very comfortable with. Grif looks mildly curious, maybe because he heard about Junior from Sister (Tucker cringes at the thought of what she might have said about him, considering she mistook him for a dog once), and Simmons just has an air of nerdy enthusiasm about him. Donut is grinning, of course he is, and he and Doc are struggling to hold up an enormous tray of baked goods with a flowery “Welcome to Chorus!!!!!!” sign dangling from it, because  _of course they are_. The lieutenants all look a little worried, though Jensen at least smiles shakily at Tucker when she sees him looking. The Fed guys apparently didn’t get the “peace” memo, because unlike Carolina, they’re all still packing, and Tucker glares at each of them in turn. But at least their guns are still holstered. And then, at the end of the line, there’s Church. He’s trying very hard to appear disinterested, if his crossed arms and the fact that he’s straight-up facing away from the proceedings are anything to go by. But every couple of minutes he turns his head back to look at the landing zone, and Tucker knows it’s just a show, like it usually is.

“Here it comes,” Kimball calls, and Tucker’s head snaps toward the sky. There’s a purple-and-silver smear rapidly approaching them. It’s rounded and smooth, elegant in that weird way most Sangheili ships are. It’s not very big, and Tucker hopes its size will reassure any skeptics in the crowd that no, this really isn’t an invasion. It touches gently down in front of them, exterior lights glimmering. Pneumatics hiss and a door at the front slides open, a ramp unfolding to the ground. He hears more than a few gasps behind him as shadowy figures move out of the darkness of the ship into the sunlight. 

There’s maybe half a dozen of them, it looks like, in armor of various colors. But there’s only one whose armor is blue and teal.

Tucker forgets that he’s supposed to be holding Wash’s hand. He forgets he’s supposed to be a dignitary. He forgets everything that doesn’t matter, because what matters is he’s running down the landing zone to the alien ship, he’s stumbling up the slippery ramp, he’s throwing his arms around his son, and his son is hugging him back.

“You got taller, dude,” he mumbles into Junior’s chestplate. Smaller than the other aliens, he’s nonetheless at least a head above Tucker now, and tougher-looking. But he honks affectionately and nuzzles down against Tucker’s hair, and Tucker can imagine him as a kid again, so tiny Tucker could pick him up and carry him under one arm. God, he’d missed Junior. He hadn’t realized exactly how much until now.

The other aliens are waiting for Junior to make a move, standing politely out of the way of the family reunion. Tucker wipes his face (he got dust in his eyes, okay, and Chorus is full of allergens, and–you know what, fuck it, he’s crying over seeing his kid, and he’ll fight anyone who talks shit about it) and points back toward the welcoming party.

“There’s some people you guys should meet,” he says, and he leads what feels like a parade of monsters down the ramp to face the humans. Wash and Carolina are both smiling at him.

“First things first,” Tucker says, turning back toward Junior and the others, “we got a translator, so hopefully everyone can understand everyone else. Santa?”

Santa emits a short burst of honks and blarghs, which seems to startle the entire party of aliens pretty badly. They stare at him, and then all start honking back at once.

“Did you get that?” Tucker asks Santa doubtfully.

Santa stares at him, and it’s hard to tell, but Tucker’s pretty sure he’s getting a look of derision. “Do not underestimate my abilities, Captain Tucker. They are, in general, surprised to see a Sangheili already here, even an artificial one.”

“First, tell them welcome to Chorus,” Kimball says. “Then tell them there’s many more Sangheili artifacts here, and they’re welcome to take a look if they’d like.” She nods at Junior, and he nods back. It seems to be some nonverbal admission of power, because the other aliens turn to face her as well. Santa honks, the aliens honk back excitedly, and then Junior comes out with an incredibly long series of honk-blargh-honk-blargh-blarghs that Tucker can’t make sense of at all. He wonders if he’s lost his touch with figuring out what Junior’s saying, but then he realizes that Junior is speaking proper Sangheili, not their family bastardization. The knowledge makes him a little sad. Santa is useful, but he misses being able to understand Junior himself.

“Junior says that it would mean a great deal to them to be able to examine these artifacts,” Santa translates, but Doyle cuts him off with a strangled noise of outrage.

“Now wait just one minute!” he says. “Please remember, my dear General Kimball, that you are not the sole guardian of this planet, and you would do well not to make any decisions without my input!  _Particularly_ items that could pose such a threat to us!”

Kimball looks ready to roar back at him, but Santa cuts smoothly in. “But first, the Sangheili would like to offer a symbol of peace and unity, since they know how much this planet has suffered of late.” With that, all the aliens but Junior troop back to the ship and begin pulling crate after crate out of the loading bay. They drop them one by one next to Junior, who cracks one open with a claw. The whole welcoming party stares at it, silent, until Tucker speaks up.

“It’s food.”

Not necessarily recognizable as food at first glance, but Tucker’s traveled with enough aliens to know what they eat, and this is food. They knew Chorus’ supplies were running out, so they decided to help the recovery effort. Tucker stares at Junior, feeling the proudest he’s ever felt, and Junior honks quietly at him with what passes in Sangheilis as a smile. Then he blarghs quickly at Santa, who nods.

“There is a large quantity of food still on the ship,” he says, “along with medical supplies and ordnance. It may take a while to unload the entirety.”

“Thank you,” Kimball says, voice a little shaky with emotion. She and her troops have suffered poverty more than anyone else on Chorus, and Tucker knows how overwhelming this must be for her, especially after Felix’s betrayal. “This is very generous of you.”

Santa honks his translation, and Junior reaches a hand to her. She takes it and shakes it firmly, laughing a little at the unfamiliarity of Junior’s four fingers. He extends it to Doyle next, who hesitates before gingerly grasping one of Junior’s fingers and wiggling it. Junior honks, making Doyle jump back about three feet, and Tucker grins.  _That_  honk he recognized. It’s Junior’s laugh.

“I guess I should introduce everyone, shouldn’t I?” he says, pointing one by one down the line. “That’s Doyle, and this is Kimball, they’re generals, they’re in charge here. Here’s Caboose, you remember him.” Junior honks in a clear affirmative, and Caboose takes a tiny step back, obviously worried about the safety of his blood. “This,” he gestures to Carolina, who waves jauntily, “is our friend Carolina. She’s a Freelancer and she’s scary. We love her. Don’t piss her off.” Finally he comes to the end of the line, the person he was least excited to introduce.

“And this,” he says heavily, “is Washington. Wash. He’s also a Freelancer. And he’s…. He’s….” Now that it’s come to this, to delivering the payload, he’s faltering. They’re what? Boyfriends? Dating? Involved? He can’t say the words. 

Maybe Wash can’t either, but it doesn’t matter: he takes Tucker’s hand again.

Junior looks slowly from Tucker’s face to Wash’s. Tucker isn’t sure what he’s looking for, but it takes the longest thirty seconds of his life. Then, abruptly, Junior claps Wash’s shoulder with one huge hand and throws his other arm around Tucker’s shoulders. He honks happily, right in Tucker’s ear, and Tucker breaths a sigh of relief. Worth it, he thinks, as he wraps an arm around Junior’s waist for a side-hug. All the bullshit before was worth it for this right here.

Junior breaks away and honks at Santa. “He says he is going to assist his shipmates in unloading the cargo,” Santa translates, and Junior heads back to the ship. Tucker turns to Wash for a victory high-five, only to realize that Wash is really, really pale.

“What’s up? You look like you’re gonna barf.”

Wash shakes his head jerkily. “You, uh,” his voice is raspy so he clears his throat, “you didn’t tell me he’d be so big. He’s. He’s really. He’s big, Tucker. He’s really big.”

“Ha! Dude, you haven’t even seen him in his combat stance yet. It’s like he gets an extra foot taller. And that was when he wasn’t even my height yet.” Wash goes, if it’s possible, even paler. “Don’t worry, you wimp, he’s not gonna hurt you.”

“I know that, Tucker, it’s just…” Wash actually gulps and Tucker has to fight not to laugh. “I was trained in the army for years, back when we were still at war with the Covenant. That kind of mindset takes a while to break.”

“Yeah, well, get over it. My kid is awesome and you’ll just have to deal.” He grins at Wash, who glowers back at him. 

“Wow, Tucker!” Donut says as he jogs up behind them. “Doc was right, Junior does seem pretty great! A lot of teeth, though. With his… weird mouth thing.”

“Oh, yeah,” Tucker says, “their mouths have like, four jaws or something? I dunno exactly what it’s called.”

“They look like mandibles on a great big bug,” Donut muses. Wash shudders so hard his armor plates clack together. Donut notices,  _of course he fucking does_ , and he adds, “Better get used to it, Wash, Junior’s basically your stepson now!”

“Yeah, seriously. Don’t act like that around my kid, you’ll hurt his feelings.” 

Instead of responding like a grown-up, Wash steps on his fucking foot. 

Fortunately Donut’s been distracted by something near the ship, so Tucker sneaks in an elbow to Wash’s ribs before following Donut’s gaze. There is a seriously huge pile of crates over there now, punctuated occasionally by a bag or basket. While a lot of it is Sangheili food, it looks like quite a bit is human food too, both prepared stuff and raw ingredients.

“Perfect!” Donut exclaims as one of the aliens brings down massive bags of flour and sugar. “Doc and I used up the last of the mess hall’s flour making our delicious pastry assortment.”

“By the way,” Santa says, and they all turn to him, “you should be aware that some of the ingredients in those pastries–namely eggs and tree nuts–are lethally poisonous to the Sangheili. In most circumstances they would take such a presentation as an open attack. However, they assumed you were merely ignorant, rather than aggressive, so they chose to take no offense.”

Donut’s everpresent smile looks a tad bit forced. “Oops?”

“You put tree nuts in those?” Wash says. “Donut,  _humans_  are allergic to those, not just aliens. We’ve talked about this.”

“Not that many humans,” Donut pouts.

“I’m allergic to them,” Wash mutters.

“Well, we made some that are nut-free!”

“But if they’ve been in contact–”

“Okay, we’re going,” Tucker says loudly, grabbing Wash by the forearm and dragging him toward Kimball and Doyle, who have set up near the pile of cargo with a few of the aliens. “I swear to God,” he says to Wash, “you never learn, do you?”

“Tucker, he always does this!”

“Oh my God,  _I do not care_. Now shut up, your voice is getting all shrill and it’s gonna freak the aliens out. You can argue with Donut about tupperware party bullshit later.” Wash looks distinctly sour, but he shuts up about the fucking pastries, thank God. 

Doyle and Kimball seem to be deep in conversation with Junior when Tucker and Wash reach them. Though Caboose is still back with the welcome wagon, Santa is over here, floating between the two generals. Dr. Grey also seems to have appeared out of nowhere, her eyes glittering as she stares in open glee at the aliens. Junior seems almost shy under her gaze, not that anyone but Tucker would be able to tell.

“…start at the communications hub,” Doyle is saying to Kimball, “it will seem less threatening to the troops. From there they can move on to some of the other relics. Perhaps the weather tower.”

“It would make sense to get them some vehicles first,” Kimball replies, “unless you want them to walk across the whole planet.”

Tucker gets where she’s coming from, but in his experience aliens don’t usually go anywhere without bringing vehicles of their own. He turns to Junior. “Don’t you have–”

“Hold on, Tucker,” Kimball interrupts, eyes fixed on Junior. “How many of your party will be traveling tomorrow, Junior?”

Junior honks a bit and Santa says, “Four, including Junior. The other three will stay here and continue unpacking supplies. Do not worry about transportation. There are several small vehicles aboard the ship.”

“That’s what I was gonna say,” Tucker mutters, but no one gives him so much as a dirty look. 

“We should plan the team to accompany them, then,” Doyle says. “Obviously either you or I should go, Vanessa.” He darts a glance at the aliens, visibly sweating. “To… er…. further goodwill, and, ahem….”

Kimball’s clearly trying so hard not to roll her eyes that it looks like her whole face hurts from the effort. “I’ll go with them. You can stay here, help out the ones working on the ship.”

Doyle coughs. “Very good.”

“Don’t you think you’ll need an expert on the history and archeology of these artifacts?” Grey asks melodically, leaning in close to Doyle’s face and watching him sweat even more. “Because I’d be happy to offer my expertise!”

“There’s no way we’d be able to keep you away,” says Kimball, “so yes, you can go, Grey.” Grey emits a barely-audible squeak of happiness and resumes staring at Junior and the other aliens.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tucker sees Caboose gesturing wildly at something Church is apparently saying to him, and he’s reminded of another problem: translating. “You’re also gonna need–”

“It will also be necessary to include Caboose,” Santa says, cutting him off. “I can project myself in several locations simultaneously, but only within a short distance, apart from at the temples. Your trip will take you too far out of range unless he joins you.”

Somebody’s gotta let me finish a fucking sentence eventually, Tucker thinks grumpily, as the others nod along with Santa.

“What about defense?” Doyle asks. Santa blarghs and the aliens turn as one to stare at him. Doyle pales and backtracks. “I’m not concerned about Junior and his friends, of course, but there may still be some pirates roaming about. You would do well to have another fighter who knows the terrain.”

Kimball nods. “You and Carolina have both fought around the temples,” she says to Wash, “maybe one of you could–?”

Wash’s hand clenches against Tucker’s and he opens his mouth, probably to scream like a baby about how scared he is, but Junior honk-blarghs and Santa translates: “Junior would like to request that Tucker’s girlfriend come, so that they may bond.”

Wash makes a small but very alarmed noise, and Tucker can feel his own ears burning. “My what?”

“I apologize,” Santa says smoothly, “Sangheili culture is somewhat vague on the subject of gender, and it seems Junior did not know any other words for your relationship.” Junior honks again, and Santa continues. “Correction, he also knows ‘your mom,’ ‘your sister,’ and ‘Grif’s sister,’ but believed them to be inappropriate.”

“He’d be right,” Tucker mumbles. Wash’s eyes are boring a hole in the side of his face so he stares determinedly at the ground. 

Kimball, blessedly, seems as eager as Tucker is to move past this awkward can of worms. “I guess that settles it. Wash, Dr. Grey, Caboose, and I will go with Junior.”

“Wait, wait.” Tucker shakes himself out of his embarrassment. “What about me?”

Everyone stares at him. “What about you?” Grey says.

His eyes narrow. “Are you kidding me right now? You’re not including me in this?”

“Actually, Tucker,” Doyle says, “I was hoping you’d stay with me and assist these… fine aliens…. in unloading their cargo, since you are more familiar with their culture.” 

“Wha… but….” 

Kimball cuts him off yet again, and he reflects briefly on how much he’s starting to fucking hate that. “There’s still work that needs doing here in the meantime. I don’t want to take any more people away from it than I have to.” 

“But…” He scrambles for a rebuttal. “Wait, you need the key to access anything at the temples! And I’m the only one who can use it!” He grins smugly. They can’t argue with that, not since the only other key on Chorus was lost in a canyon when Doyle threw it away from Felix.

Junior honks. “That is not strictly true,” Santa says. “Junior can also harness the power of the Great Key.”

“Really?” Tucker groans at Junior. “Really, dude?” Junior shrugs a little guiltily and looks away.

“Well, that settles it,” Doyle says. “Junior can take Tucker’s key, and Tucker can remain here.”

Tucker hands the sword over to Junior, defeated. Attaching it to his belt, Junior pats Tucker’s shoulder and honks sympathetically. It rallies Tucker a little, because he’s gone back to using their family dialect:  _I’ll be back soon,_  a message Santa won’t be able to share. He tries to smile as the group falls back into fervent discussion, but it’s hard. Junior seems excited, though. At least there’s that.

“Hey.” Wash shakes Tucker’s arm a bit, and Tucker snaps back into focus. “We’re heading to Kimball’s office, she wants to finalize the itinerary.” He winces a little. “I’ll see you later? I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, it’s fine, dude,” Tucker says flatly. “Do what you gotta do.” He sighs. “Just, tomorrow, for the love of God… play nice with my fucking kid, okay?”

Wash nods, that somber look in his eyes again. “I will, Tucker, I promise.” He drops Tucker’s hand (how were they holding hands for that long? God, now his fingers are all sweaty, gross) and follows Kimball and the others. Doyle sticks around, though, to Tucker’s annoyance. Is it too much to ask that the guy let him stew in peace?

“Cheer up,” he says, jauntily slapping Tucker’s back, “I’m sure we’ll have a grand time here with Junior’s compatriots.”

Right. Because half the reason he’s stuck here tomorrow is Doyle. “Permission to speak frankly, General?”

Doyle blinks. “Erm… granted?”

“You’re terrible, and don’t talk to me.” And, ignoring the spluttering behind him, he bails.

* * *

Church may have been pissed at him before (hell, he probably still is), but it doesn’t stop him from agreeing when Tucker invites him to get drinks. “Get drinks” here meaning “beg Grif to share his impressive and very illegal booze cache, because Tucker has had a very difficult day, and he would like to be shitfaced, please and thank you.” Thankfully Grif is up for it, so forty minutes later finds the three of them holed up on the floor of a closet in Red Team’s bunk, an array of fifths, rehydrated juice, and stolen mess hall cups laid out around them like an offering.

Tucker isn’t even sure why Church came. It’s not like he can actually drink, that’s not exactly a function of robot bodies. Maybe he just misses hanging out and slacking off with Tucker like they did back in Blood Gulch (like Tucker and _Alpha_  did back in Blood Gulch, he keeps reminding himself). Honestly, Tucker misses it too, a hell of a lot right now. It’s nice to be doing something stupid and pointless that’s familiar for once, and that isn’t likely to end in anyone’s death.

Well, Tucker corrects himself as he watches Grif pour four shots of vodka into an ounce of orange juice, they may die, but death by hangover is sort of a positive change from death by bullets, right?

Three “cocktails” later he’s mostly stopped thinking about death at all. Unfortunately, copious amounts of alcohol aren’t having the mood-boosting effect he’d desired, and he finds himself still stewing about the temple exploration group. The problem is, now he’s stewing out loud.

“Jesus Christ,” Church says at one point, “not everything is about you, Tucker. You don’t know shit about the temples, why would they bring you?”

“Uh, because I was an alien ambassador?” Tucker says, splashing a little juice on himself as he gestures.

“And now they have the alien AI to do that instead,” Grif says. “From what I saw in the desert, you were never that great at it anyway.”

“Hey, fuck you, shisno!”

“No, fuck you, Blue!”

“Oh my God,” Church groans. “Don’t do this. Tucker, get over it, it’s not the end of the world.”

“Yeah, but….” Tucker thunks his head on the wall he’s propped up against, staring up at the single fluorescent bulb on the ceiling. “It’s my kid, though.”

They’re all silent for a minute.

"He won’t be gone that long.” Church seems to have a small battle with himself, probably about whether he wants to be sympathetic or still act mad. Sympathy apparently wins out because he pats Tucker’s knee. “You’ll have time with him.”

Tucker opens his mouth to say that yes, he knows that, but it still sucks because he wanted to be the one to show Junior around, tell his kid what his life had been like for the last few months, maybe tell him some stories about the cool shit he’d done on Chorus, and yeah, he can still do that, but it won’t mean as much if Junior’s already heard it from somebody else. Before he can get any of the words out, though, the door to the closet creaks open and Wash stares down at the three of them.

“Cheese it, it’s the cops!” Grif yells, grabbing the nearest cup and dumping it into what looks like Simmons’ shoes. Wash sighs. Tucker wonders if he’s having déjà vu too. Sometimes the Grif siblings aren’t so different.

“Who sold us out?” Tucker asks, trying to straighten up and look a little less drunk than he is. Wash isn’t buying it, though, by the way he’s looking between Tucker and all the alcohol.

“The lieutenants were a little concerned,” Wash says, “but they didn’t want to tell me where you all were, so I made an educated guess.” He raises an eyebrow at Grif, who is still determinedly pouring the contraband into the shoes. “I should give you an official reprimand for this, Captain Grif.”

“No, don’t,” Tucker protests, “making this place is the most humanitarian thing Grif’s ever done.” Grif nods agreeably.

"Then maybe,” Wash says impatiently, ”I’ll leave it with Simmons and let him decide how to handle it.”

Grif stops pouring. “Please. No.”

“Just don’t do this again.” Wash stoops to grab Tucker under the armpits, pulling him unsteadily upright. “You are a disaster right now, let’s just get you into bed and hope you don’t die in the night.”

“Bow-chicka-bow-wow,” Tucker murmurs, leaning into Wash’s shoulder. Church snorts, and Wash’s hand jerks like he’d been about to flip the bird and thought better of it. “Plus,” Tucker adds after a moment’s thought, “I’m a disaster all the time.” He waves a finger at Wash’s face, almost poking him in the eye.

“Did you want me to argue with that?”

 Making puppy eyes never seems to work with Wash, but Tucker does it anyway. “Well, yeah, you’re supposed to defend me. You’re my…” He giggles. “My girlfriend.”

“God help me.” Wash jostles him. “You are wrecked. You better be sober by tomorrow or we’ll leave without you.”

“You’re leaving without me anyway. You’re gonna go bond with my awesome kid and I’m not gonna be there.”

“Well….” Wash won’t quite meet meet his eyes now. “It was obvious you were upset, so I spoke to Kimball and told her I thought Junior might be more comfortable if you were there too, and after some coaxing she finally agreed, so….”

Tucker turns around so fast he almost falls over, and only Wash’s hands at his shoulders keeps him up. “You got me a spot on the team?!” Fuck being drunk and mopey, and fuck Church and Grif being here. It’s hug time, Tucker decides, and throws his arms around Wash’s neck. “Holy shit, you’re the _best_.”

After a second, Wash’s arms wrap around his waist. “You’re welcome,” he says, and Tucker can hear the smile in his voice. And also the blush. He’s pretty sure Wash is blushing.

“Now kiss,” Grif slurs from the floor, and you know what? That’s a capital goddamn idea. So Tucker lays one on Wash, a huge gross kiss on the cheek that lasts for like ten whole seconds. Wash squirms, but he can’t escape Tucker, who is personally very satisfied to note that he can feel the heat of Wash’s face under his lips. Grif wolf-whistles and Church makes some very pointed coughing noises, but Tucker barely notices either of them.

“You take such good care of me,” Tucker mumbles into Wash’s ear. “My cutie-pie. My main squeeze.”

“Jesus Christ.” Wash pushes him away and gives him a shove out of the closet. “I think I preferred girlfriend.”

“My baby boo bear.”

“What the hell?”

“You are,” Tucker speaks quietly so Wash has to lean forward to hear him, “my big daddy.” And he taps Wash gently on the nose.

He knows immediately that that’s gonna be the nickname that sticks, because Wash flushes even redder, far past what Tucker thought humanly possible.

(He doesn’t think much of it til he’s sober again, but he has one other good reason to stick with it: the sound of Grif coughing his drink all over himself and spluttering, “You can’t call him that, that’s ours, Simmons will think I ratted him out. Wait, shit. How drunk am I right now. Ignore everything I’ve ever said.”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from ["Papa's Got a Brand New Bag" by James Brown](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QE5D2hJhacU)


End file.
